


H is for Holiday, Happiness, and…

by buttercups3



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Bass agrees and wants me to do this, Bass being really horny and giggly, Fluff, Fort Knox, I'm going to start sandwiching every word I can think of between Miles and fetish, M/M, Miles kneeling fetish, Miles singing fetish, Military Base fetish, Miloe do have sex, Rachel and Ben don't have sex but make a cute couple, Sex in the Challenger, Weird juxtaposition of Mass with closet sex, Young Miloe, but also real plot and my Miloe head canon, holiday spirit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-02
Updated: 2013-12-02
Packaged: 2018-01-03 05:29:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1066320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttercups3/pseuds/buttercups3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pop Matheson, currently residing in Florida, sends a long overdue invitation to his sons to meet him at Fort Knox for holiday Mass. They road trip with their respective beaux, and Miloe can't keep their hands off each other. This is plotted, character-driven fluffy porn. A very Miloe holiday to you, sir!</p>
            </blockquote>





	H is for Holiday, Happiness, and…

**Author's Note:**

> As you read, bear in mind your favorite characters are VERY young here: Miles and Bass only 23 and Rachel only 20. They are consequently full of zest, romantic notions, and, you know, horniness. I'm not sure when I've last had this much fun! Season Two, you puller-downer of Miloe feels, this is my manifesto of Miloe Joy against you! :P'''

“I swear, only Pop Matheson would disappear to Florida for almost two years, barely bothering to write, and then, out of the blue: I’ll be at Ft. Knox the day after Thanksgiving if you and Ben want to meet me there… _for church_!” Bass wipes at the condensation on the passenger window. “Your dad is a trip, Miles.”

Miles shrugs and keeps his eyes on the road, alert for camouflaged ice patches. The wind tinkles peculiar music through the brittle trees; the windshield is laced with the world’s tiniest snowflakes. Unlike Iraq or Parris Island, there’s no doubt that it’s winter here. Miles and Bass have lost some of their toughness against the cold over the past few years, but they’ve been staying all week with the Monroes, flinging ice rocks at Bass’ little sisters and fattening up on Gail’s sweet potato pie topped with blowtorched marshmallows. They’re beginning to feel like Midwesterners again.

“So Ben and the girlfriend are meeting us there, too, huh? Driving down from Chicago? I can’t believe it. Benny’s hooked a girl. Not a bad looking one either.”

Miles shrugs again. He’s used to Bass keeping the conversation going all on his own. No need to encourage him.

“Well, maybe we can at least hit up the PX and get some discount booze. Make the trip worthwhile. Oh, I mean in addition to seeing your elusive father, of course.”

Miles at least shifts his eyes at this. 

“Man, we’ve been driving for hours; can’t we take a break?” Bass complains suddenly.

“Bass, Fort Knox is less than two hours from Jasper – one and a half the way I drive. So no, it’s not been _hours_ , and no we can’t stop,” Miles protests in exasperation. “‘Sides, Pop might belt me in public if I’m late for church.” Miles snickers a bit at his own conjecture, and Bass lightly shakes his head. They both catch themselves wondering if Pop Matheson _would_ wallop his twenty-three year-old son in the middle of a crowded army post.

Finally, Bass grumbles, “Fine, then. But, I’m _so_ horny.”

“What? You’re hungry?”

“Horny. S’what I said.” Bass crosses his arms and pouts.

Miles can’t help himself – he glances to the pants to see if he can detect a boner under Bass’ blue jeans, but it’s difficult given the angle and his seatbelt restraint.

“Come on. Pull over,” Bass encourages. “It’ll only take a minute.” 

“ _What_ will only take a minute?”

“Getting me off.”

“In the middle of rural Kentucky? No way. They probably still have anti-sodomy laws on the books, skeet-for-brains.”

“Well, you weren’t getting _that_ lucky. Besides, you can’t possibly expect me to sit through church like this.”

Miles hears a distinct _ziiiip_ , and whips his head toward Bass. 

“Man, what are you…Oh come on; put it away!”

“No one can see.” Bass has already extracted the top half of his penis and is stroking it luxuriantly, like one would the head of a cat.  

At a certain point, Bass gets so into it that the _slip-slip_ sound of wet fingers on cockskin becomes audible to Miles. He licks his lips, feeling his own dick rousing in his pants and finally reaches over to finger Bass’ seeping head. Miles hears Bass’ breath catch. _Fuck_. Now he’s imagining the salty, slightly rancid taste of cum, and his heart is racing.

Miles swears aloud and diverts off the highway onto a side road under the paltry shelter of the leafless forest. The Challenger skids to a stop on icy gravel. Miles cuts the engine and unclicks his seatbelt.

“I thought you said – uhhhh,” Bass’ voice melts into drivel, as Miles leans over Bass’ lap, his chestnut head bobbing up and down.

“Wufmugah,” Miles answers Bass, mouth full of cock.

In a few seconds, Bass is coming nearly at the back of Miles’ throat to the point where he feels Miles gag a little. But Miles, thoughtfully, manages to keep his lips closed to prevent the cum from dribbling back onto Bass’ jeans.

Bass _thunks_ his head against the headrest in release. _Damn_. Suddenly, Miles’ lips are before his, which he blocks with a hand.

“Either swallow it or spit it out the window, man. Don’t want my own cum in my mouth.” Miles gulps loudly and then grins. Bass wipes away the tiny trail of moisture down Miles’ chin and kisses him rapturously.

“You need something back?” Bass asks into Miles’ open mouth.

“Better not,” Miles responds with a sigh, pulling away and rattling the keys in the ignition. “We need to go, and Pop has bionic smelling capabilities when it comes to detecting jizz." 

Bass makes a face. “You don’t think he’ll smell it on your breath then?”

“Gum,” Miles explains, waving a pack. Bass snatches it and takes a piece for himself.

“Man, I don’t envy the case of blue balls you’re gonna suffer through Mass.” 

“Eh, between seeing Pop and listening to Father Boggin’s boring-ass homily, I’ll be lucky if my balls don’t crawl into my body and hibernate there for the rest of the winter.”

…

In the year that Rachel and Ben have been together, Ben’s father has been little more than a part-comical, part-terrible ghost of Christmas past. She imagines him looking rather like Old Man Smithers from Scooby Doo and filling his crotchety days hitting golf balls in the elder paradise that is Florida. He never calls, doesn’t write. She really only thinks of him when Ben drops some annoying new habit, as if Ben’s dad is the genesis of every flaw in her beau. He’s the reason, for instance, that Ben is sometimes hesitant in bed, and the reason that Ben refuses to call his little brother, even though Miles has recently, and for some time, been in Iraq in mortal peril. Ben claims he resists calling Miles, because talking on the phone with him is like holding court with a brick wall.

But Rachel does harbor an abiding morbid curiosity about Mr. Matheson, so she’d jumped on the chance to take a road trip from Chicago to Fort Knox after Thanksgiving. This in spite of significant trepidation that she’s (a) never been to Catholic Mass (was raised in an atheist household), and (b) has never set foot on a military base and has no idea how to conduct herself. She keeps imagining herself saluting the combat-fatigue-clad Miles and Bass on sight and devolves into internalized giggling. 

Rachel must admit that she rather romanticizes the gay Marines in her life. She knows it’s got to be shitty being in the most macho branch of the military under their circumstances, but she roots for their ‘forbidden love’ to prevail just like they’re in a stupid rom com, which, by the way, she hates – always prefers science fiction. Ben does too – that’s one of the things they have in common.

As they drive up to the checkpoint – “Get out your ID,” Ben advises – Rachel asks, “So your dad was army right? Not a Marine?” 

“Yep.”

“Thank you,” says the soldier at the kiosk, handing back their IDs. Rachel is a bit disappointed at the lackluster greeting, since she heard the guard holler at the car in front of them: “Have a Navy day, shipmate!” 

“And Miles and Bass still haven’t fessed up to being a couple?” she continues to Ben. 

“Nope.” He drives on toward the parking lot.

“And in preparation for seeing your laconic brother, you’ve now taken to responding exclusively in one-syllable answers?”

“Sorry, Rachel. I’m just thinking. You know, after Mom died, Pop used to make us drive out here for Mass about two times a month or so. I always joked he had a girlfriend on base. Miles hated when I said that. Maybe Pop just missed being around other soldiers.”

“Wow. Nearly two hours each way just to go to church? Is he disappointed that religion didn’t stick on you and Miles?”

“Oh, sure. He thinks we’re both going to hell and all that, though Miles tries harder to keep up appearances. Neither of us have the guts to refuse communion, so just prepare yourself for that.”

“Prepare myself to watch you feast upon the body of Christ and imbibe His holy blood?” she grins.

“This is good – get out all the blasphemy before we see Pop.”

“I’ll behave!” Rachel laughs. “So what do I call him?”

“Pop Matheson. Or Captain, I guess. No one calls him Mike.”

“Look, Bass and Miles are waving us down," and she's ever-so-slightly disappointed to see, not in uniform, but in parkas and jeans. "Park there. I’m so excited!”

“Don’t be,” Ben begins as Bass opens Rachel’s door and helps her out with chivalrous flair. “Pop’s the scariest person I’ve ever met.”

Bass jumps right in their conversation, as if he’s been part of it from the beginning: “Yes, me too, and I’ve stared down al-Qaeda.” Bass breaks out into a fabulously infectious grin that is simply impossible not to return. Rachel hugs him warmly.

Miles shakes his head behind his best friend and reaches around to shake Rachel’s hand, which she promptly rejects in favor of a friendly embrace. Miles then tries his hand on his brother, who also flings his arms around Miles. The Marine looks positively dazed by all this affection.

Striding toward them is a very tall, severe man with steel-gray hair and a sour, lined mouth. His bottomless brown eyes are Miles’; Ben he scarcely resembles at all. Mr. Matheson nods at the group: “Sons. Sebastian,” shaking each hand firmly in turn. Then, he turns to Rachel, and she nearly withers under his stare.

“Pop, I’d like you to meet Rachel Porter,” Ben says after clearing his throat.

The vice hand nearly crunches her, and she’s glad for the cushion of her glove. Snow begins to fall again in puny little gasps, and Rachel shivers.

“Well, let’s get inside the chapel.” It sounds more like an order than a suggestion from the thin lips that barely move. Pop takes not one step before he freezes at the lonely wail of a bugle. 

Instantly, Pop, Miles, and Bass snap to attention, their hands over their hearts. Rachel gazes at Ben, who whispers, “Just stay still and hope we can’t hear the anthem.”

Finally, the song expires, and the captain strides briskly in the direction of the chapel.

“What…?” Rachel asks Miles, who is about to pass her.

He inclines his head a little toward her and explains, “Retreat. Uh, lowering the colors. We’re not in uniform, so,” he shrugs, “that’s what we do.” As usual, Miles’ best attempt at explaining things is not very enlightening. Bass shoots Rachel a reassuring grin.

“Hey, you guys want to hit up the PX with us after the service? We were thinking of snagging a giant bottle of tequila, taking it back to Jasper, and then killing it. You should come! Mom’ll let you crash at our house,” Bass says, while forcing his curls under a stocking cap. 

“Umm…” Ben looks hesitant, but Rachel is immediately enamored of the idea.

“Yes! What’s the…PX?”

“Post Exchange,” Bass, Miles, and Ben all say at once. She’s feeling rather left out, and yet intrigued by this strange military world of which she knows naught. 

Her alienation thickens when she reaches for Ben’s hand, and he shakes her off. “Not on post,” is all he says but gives her an apologetic shrug.

The Mass is a strange mixture of the mystical and well-designed social control, Rachel decides, but she rather enjoys herself anyway. First of all, she’s standing next to Miles, and he turns out to be a beautiful singer. Though he’s notoriously reticent, he’s belting out hymns like he’s Plácido Domingo. Rachel can’t help but beam at him. From around Miles’ shoulder Bass mouths, _I know right?_ This earns Bass a terrifying glare from Pop and a warning poke in the ribs from Miles.

Second, Ben looks so adorably uncomfortable, that his be-sweatered shoulders have migrated up to practically skirt his earlobes. The sight makes Rachel want to burst out laughing and smother her nervy beau in kisses. Finally, when they get to the communion part of the service, she takes the cue that they’re supposed to kneel, and the bulgy-eyed look on Bass’ face when Miles dutifully bows before the pew almost breaks her. She has to bite her lip against a chortle, and peripherally takes in Ben’s scowl. _Sorry_ , she mouths.

She’s not trying to be disrespectful, but it is rather ridiculous that after all these years of not seeing each other, the male Mathesons would spend their few precious hours together at a church, when two of them – possibly all three – aren’t really religious. After the wafer and wine and a second round of kneeling, Rachel gets the distinct sense that Miles’ knee is bothering him. He’s shifting minutely around and trying to stretch it out to the side without drawing attention. She remembers then that he hurt it in Iraq. Surely Pop wouldn’t hold it against him if he sat back, but Miles toughs it out. This reality check dampens her cheery mood. 

An empty, watery feeling in the pit of her stomach only grows when, at the end of Mass, Pop announces to his pew, “It was good to see you all looking so well. I have to go now.”

“Pop, don’t you want to stick around for dinner or something?” Ben attempts, trying to relax his shoulders.

“No time. Have to go.”

Bass exchanges a delighted little look with Rachel as if to say, _Isn’t Pop the worst father in the history of bad fathers?_ It helps her recover her smile.

Ben and Miles merely shake their dad’s hand and watch him walk down the hall and disappear out the side door. Then, they kind of look at each other grimly and burst out laughing.

“Um, tequila?” Miles suggests.

“How about you guys head over to the PX and pick out your favorite label. We’ll meet you over there in a sec,” Bass encourages, ushering Miles by the arm down the hall.

“What? Where are you -” Miles stutters, his big body resisting.

“Watching you kneel makes me horny,” Bass whispers breathily in Miles’ ear.

“Oh for crying out – uh!” Bass has shoved Miles into a closet and locked the door. It’s so black that Miles can’t see his own hand. 

In a moment, Bass fumbles fingers onto Miles’ bare stomach, then migrates up his hairline toward nipple, squeezing it rapturously.

“Bass,” Miles hisses. “We can’t fuck in the church closet! We’re on base! If someone finds us, we’ll…” 

“Shut up and kiss me, you filthy pervert,” Bass insists, groping with the other hand for Miles’ chin and crashing it into his teeth. 

Bass rolls Miles’ nipple, while Miles exhales a desperate little moan into his mouth – a clear admission of want.

Grabbing furiously at Miles’ belt and zipper, Bass pulls him out, hard, sweaty, and throbbing. The heat is cranked up far too high to be in this close of quarters, and they’ve already shed their winter coats on the floor.

As Bass runs his fingers to the base of Miles’ dick, he shriek-whispers “Miles, you shaved for me! That’s so sweet. You’re such a sap.”

“Shut up, Bass. I didn…well. Shut up.”

Bass swears he can feel Miles’ cheeks burning even in the darkness and cackles silently.

“Oh my god. Did you shave your _balls_ , too?” Bass tries to reach in and under Miles, but his jeans are too tight. “It’s unbelievable bad luck we’re in a closet, or I would take your smooth ass so hard right now. Curses!” Bass is laughing so hard into Miles’ neck, he can barely keep it quiet.

Miles is about to object again, until Bass spits an enormous quantity of saliva into both hands to jack Miles extravagantly.

“Uhhh.” Miles careens back into the wall, sending a broom clattering to the floor.

“Shh!” Bass warns, still unable to stop chuckling. “Control yourself, you little whore, or I’ll stop.”

“Noo,” Miles moans. He’s gone to jelly in Bass’ hands. “Harder,” he whispers.

Instead Bass takes out his own dick and slides it against Miles’. They grind sweat-slicked cock to cock while tongue fucking, pausing occasionally to bite their lips against the louder of their moans.

Miles suddenly buries his face in the crook of Bass’ neck and mutters, “So close…”

“Hold on! Let me catch up!” Bass pumps himself energetically, and after a few seconds, manages to gather Miles’ dick into the same hand, jacking with all his might.

“Better aim it up my shirt,” Miles warns, and Bass repositions them beneath the hem of Miles’ white t-shirt. 

“Yeah,” Miles growls, and the sound of him coming undone sets off Bass. They both spasm and spurt, Bass still trying to wring them one-handed, while keeping the geyser directed appropriately.

At last, Miles throws both arms around Bass and pulls him in tight for a squeeze. 

“Like watching me on my knees, huh?” Miles mumbles into Bass’ static-crackly curls. “Maybe we should come to church more often.”

“How about we just do _this_ more often?” Bass suggests reasonably, sweat dribbling down his temple, breathing in his last few nostrils-full of Miles-musk and cum. Finally, he presses his forehead into his boyfriend’s and kisses him deeply. “Let’s go see if those crazy kids found us a choice bottle of tequila at the PX.”

…

“So where did they go?” Rachel asks Ben, comparing tequila labels and glancing at her watch. The boys have been MIA for fifteen minutes.

Ben sighs like his children have missed curfew for the hundredth time. “Oh, they’re probably doing it somewhere. They usually are.”


End file.
